


a study in ink black

by magichistorian



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Deal with a Devil, M/M, Sexual Tension, maybe a little, references to violence and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26188657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magichistorian/pseuds/magichistorian
Summary: He crossed the room over to Moriarty’s desk - and, oh,  how his overwhelming existence doubled, tripled then, and choked him with it, dripping through his veins like lead and clogging his head with a foggy terror and an almost erotic high. He couldn't breathe, but Moriarty didn't mind, not really - and sat on the corner, legs crossed like they were old friends meeting up for a chat.“You like games, do you not?” He said, peering at his gloved fingers.---Professor Moriarty gets an unexpected guest.
Relationships: Lucifer/Moriarty, Tsukioka Tsumugi/Utsuki Chikage
Comments: 18
Kudos: 47





	a study in ink black

**Author's Note:**

> I tried out a bit if a different writing style for this, so I hope it turned out well!

Moriarty felt the man’s presence before he even crossed the threshold of the door. It was a powerful, suffocating aura, and without even realizing it, Moriarty had gone tense, his fingers silently reaching for his well-concealed knife.  _ What a man this must be _ , his subconscious wondered,  _ to interest me so, without having shown his face _ .

As he gripped his disguised weapon in a way that, to any typical man on the street, would appear relaxed, the person he had been anticipating walked through the door. While Moriarty had learned long ago that making assumptions based on the appearance of a man was dangerous, he could not help but to feel a moment of surprise. 

This man, who was standing just inside his empty classroom was rather small, barely taller than that slippery detective Holmes. The slim line of his body, pronounced by the form-fitting shape of his suit; the welcoming blue eyes and the light, pleasant smile on his plain face; the inky black hair that hung over his eyes; they all gave off a delicate impression. And yet the crisp, long-legged suit he wore, fabrics colored a deep bloody hue, and the harsh clack of his heels against Moriarty’s tile floors contrasted that delicate appearance beautifully. 

Yes, beautiful was the word, wasn't it? That was the best way to describe him, strange and otherworldly as he was. But he was not beautiful in the way flowers and sweet young women were beautiful; rather, he held the beauty of a fine weapon, dripping with the blood of its victim. 

Moriarty did not find many things beautiful. The neat, understandable logic of mathematics was deeply satisfying, and he could understand the visual appeal of such things as works of art, even if his appreciation was rooted in an objective appreciation of the skill to create such a thing.

A crime scene was beautiful, he supposed. It was thrilling; in that way a good book or a curious puzzle is thrilling. It was an alluring thrill, one that he would gladly chase, without regard for others’ lives, just so he could feel it again, just so he could be hunted down so forcefully, because the thrill of Detective Holmes following right on his heels was just as lovely as that of the crime itself, and-

But he was getting off-track a bit, wasn't he. 

“Good afternoon,” Moriarty greeted, his voice smooth and unbothered, for he would not allow this man to gain the upper hand. “What brings you around here?”

And just as expected, the man smiled right back. It would have seemed quite cordial to anybody else watching, but Moriarty was not just anybody else and he could feel the electric tension thrumming about the room, dancing and teasing between them as they stared each other down under a mask of politeness. 

He hadn't felt this way since meeting James Addison - or should he say Mr. Holmes? - and the delicious thrill was already riling him up. Oh, how he longed for somebody he could play with forever. 

“You seem to be a very interesting man, Professor Moriarty.” He said, a dangerous smile on his face. “I came hoping you could give me something I want very dearly. I promise I can give you something just as nice back.”

He was a crafty man, then. He had enough power to get what he wanted and more, but that wasn't what pleased him. What was the pleasure in getting something without effort? He was going to tease, and hang his offer from a string like a bored cat because the fight was far more worthwhile than the prize. He could understand this man because he saw his own self in him. 

And that made him both wary and delighted in equal measure. 

“And what could you be offering that you think is so worth my time?” He asked. 

He crossed the room over to Moriarty’s desk - and, oh, how his overwhelming  _ existence  _ doubled, tripled then, and choked him with it, dripping through his veins like lead and clogging his head with a foggy terror and an almost erotic high. He couldn't breathe, but Moriarty didn't mind, not really - and sat on the corner, legs crossed like they were old friends meeting up for a chat. 

“You like games, do you not?” He said, peering at his gloved fingers. 

“What sort of games do you mean? Something tells me you aren’t talking about a nice round of chess.”

“That’s the reason you like that dear little detective so much, yes? He’s the only one who can keep up with you, the only one who can solve your puzzles, the only one worth playing with.”

“What are you getting at?” Moriarty hissed, struggling to keep his impatience from bleeding across his words. He leaned back in his chair a little in the hope that it would have him appear casual and composed. 

“Your little game isn't going to last forever, you know. Don’t you want to beat Sherlock Holmes? Don’t you want to win your endless tug-of-war?” He stood, looming over Moriarty. The smile he wore, terrifying in its calmness, eclipsed the rest of Moriarty’s vision. “Unless… it’s not the victory you really want. A game that ends isn't much fun, is it? You’ll win and you’ll lose, as long as he keeps following you, am I right? Your souls are tied together, you know. I can  _ see _ them. You need him as much as he needs you.”

The energy in the room had become impenetrable, an intoxicating syrupy sweetness that seemed to sink Moriarty into the ground, slowly burying him alive. 

“Who are you?” Moriarty whispered. “ _ What  _ are you?”

The man’s eyes widened in delight, as if the discovery of his inhumanity was what he was hoping for. But he did not answer.

With that, the irritation bubbling up in Moriarty became too much to bear; he surged to his feet from his chair and used that momentum to slam the man, who was leaning against the desk, backwards. His head cracked against the desk with a sound that even made Moriarty wince. 

Despite his face showing no signs of the pain such a bruise would generally cause, his eyes widened enough that Moriarty could see he had finally gained the upper hand, at least slightly. 

“ _ What are you. _ ” He asked again, pushing down harder with the hand he was pinning the other man’s chest with. “What do you want with me?”

As soon as those words left his mouth he knew his advantage was completely lost. 

“What do you  _ think _ the devil wants with you?” 

Objectively, it wasn't all too surprising a revelation. And yet, the first time a man comes face to face with a devil in the flesh is quite daunting an experience, to say the least. Devils are supposed to be whispers in the depths of sin, and warnings from a mother to her child, so to meet one so directly, so personally, struck Moriarty with a strange feeling so staggering he stumbled back, his weight against the desk lightening. 

Before he could hope to regain his composure, a strong force pushed him backwards, landing him back in his chair with a gasp, so startled he could hardly take in a breath. 

As he coughed, trying to draw in a deep breath, a dark form rose up, casting a inky black shadow across Moriarty. 

With nearly enough force to tip the chair forward,  _ Lucifer  _ \- for that must be his name- slammed his foot down on the chair, just between Moriarty’s legs. He leaned down, their faces less than a forearm’s length apart. 

He reached up, lazily combing his own hair from his face, slicking it back against his head. 

When his hand dropped back down to his side, Moriarty could see his face in full. 

So. This was the true beauty of the devil. Those sweet blue eyes went cold, the irises as pale and unrelenting as ice. A thick line of black makeup traced along his upper eyelid; Moriarty had only ever seen it on women, drawn around their eyes to look more feminine and at times even coquettish. And yet on the devil, it did not look one bit out of place; it was the beautiful warpaint he lured man into the darkness with. 

His lips were as blue as a drowned corpse, ghosted with a smoky gray that looked drawn on as well. 

The real face of the devil was a sight to behold indeed. Looking as dangerous as he did beautiful, Moriarty finally understood why his mere presence held such an overwhelming force. 

A wicked smile drew across Moriarty’s face at that moment. If a bystander were to walk in on them, he would hardly be able to distinguish which was the devil and which was the mortal. 

“So, did you come for my soul?” He taunted. 

“Glad you're catching on,” Lucifer said. “So, what do you say? Do you want to form a contract with me?” 

“Remind me what I’m getting out of this?”

Lucifer peeled off one black glove and reached out, his hand landing to rest on Moriarty’s chest, right above his heart. 

“You’re in love with the chase, the game, the thrill of playing with lives, are you not? It's your high. Promise yourself to me and I’ll promise you a game that never ends, a game that you can win as many times as you like and still it never ends, lasting forever until you finally slip up and lose.”

“And what happens then?”

Lucifer’s hand, which was resting on Moriarty’s chest, fisted in the fabric of Moriarty’s vest. In a voice a little softer than his usual tone, he said, “Then, your soul is mine.”

A pause, and then with an outstretched hand: “Do we have a deal?”

Oh, how Moriarty longed to tear him apart, and be torn apart himself in turn, to explore each other from the inside out like maniacal scientists who had lost their humanity long ago in the hunt for knowledge. 

Moriarty reached his hand out to meet Lucifer’s, slowly closing the gap between their waiting fingers. A force not unlike that of a powerful magnet drew them together, dragging slowly but without relenting, determined to bring them together. 

But rather than shaking hands, Moriarty shot his hand out and gripped Lucifer’s wrist. “I have one more condition.”

Lucifer’s eyebrow shot up. Surely he was taken aback by Moriarty’s cockiness, daring to bargain a contract with a devil. But he did not stop him, and so Moriarty continued. 

“You and I are quite similar, wouldn't you agree? As much as I enjoy my games with Mr. Holmes, I think you could offer me a rather thrilling chase as well. I know you can’t be satisfied with just my soul, not if you don't get to chase it around a bit first.”

Lucifer smiled. “You had better make this worth my while. I will be quite disappointed if you lose too easily.”

“I could say the same to you.” Moriarty loosened his grip around Lucifer’s wrist and took his hand instead. “It’s a deal.”

The second Lucifer’s hand closed around his, every point of contact burned, so sharp and sudden he almost tore his hand away. The room darkened, though whether that was the lights dimming or his own vision blurring he couldn't say. The air grew heavy, weighing down on his shoulders. 

And then it stopped. 

Lucifer pulled his hand away. 

“I have a few matters to attend to, but be assured, I will return,” he said as he pulled his glove back on. 

Stepping forward after a second of hesitation, Lucifer reached out, carefully cupping the side of Moriarty’s face. It was a deceptively gentle touch, and yet Moriarty silently savored it. 

Lucifer moved forward, rocking up on his heels just the slightest bit, and with ice-cold lips, pressed a light kiss to Moriarty’s cheek. 

“I’ll see you soon,” He said as he pulled away.

  
  


And then he was gone, leaving behind only a smudged lipstick mark and a handful of ink black feathers. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


End file.
